


Beneath the Skin

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-14
Updated: 2006-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:29:54
Rating: Teen & Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8729023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Dean has a scar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

beneath the skin

**Title** \- beneath the skin  
**Pairing** \- Sam/Dean  
**Rating** \- wincest  
**Summary** \- Dean has a scar.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_**beneath the skin**_  
  
  
  
Dean has a scar on the pad of his left thumb. It’s not a big one; a quarter of an inch long, if that. It’s lined up right along the center of his skin, pin straight. There’s nothing noticeable or distinct about it. If you didn’t know it was there or weren’t looking specifically for it you wouldn’t see it at all.   
  
Sam can see it. He knows it’s there. It’s ten years worth of faded by now, working back into the lines of Dean’s skin, but Sam can spot it clear as day.  
  
It’s more visible at some times than others. When Dean’s fingers turn pink from the cold the scar raises up; a thin white line dividing his fingerprint in two. Every once in a while, or at the end of the day, it shines bright against the dirt and grime covering Dean’s hands. Those are the times that anyone can see it.  
  
Not that it matters to Sam, though. Sam always knows it’s there.  
  
He can feel it when Dean drags his thumb across Sam’s mouth. They kneel on the bed, the mattress lumpy and sagging under their knees. Sam’s lip is sore where Dean is pressing against his teeth.   
  
Dean’s skin is bitter. Salty and familiar and Sam’s breath stutters in his chest. He closes his lips around Dean’s finger, feeling the ridge of the scar under his tongue.   
  
“Sam.” Dean’s voice is rough.   
  
He shakes his head. “No talking,” Sam says. “You haven’t shut up all day.”  
  
Dean’s face pinches in a frown and he looks like he’s about to argue, so Sam wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him until they fall back onto the bed.   
  
The blanket is cheap and stiff under Sam’s back. A horrible rust color with lopsided flowers stitched with gold thread. It’s dark outside and the only light comes from the tiny lamp glowing on the top of the dresser across the room. The pillows are flat and thin. Sam’s head hits the headboard as Dean presses him down into the mattress.   
  
It’s one of the worst hotels they’ve been to—definitely one of the worst ones recently—but it doesn’t matter. It has everything Sam needs.   
  
Dean’s hands move slowly over Sam’s skin. He kisses Sam’s throat, his cheek, his eyelid. The rough stubble has Sam grabbing fistfuls of Dean’s shirt with sweaty hands, twisting the cotton into knots.   
  
He blinks up at the stucco ceiling as Dean’s mouth moves across his jaw, down his throat. Their bodies fit in a way nothing ever has in Sam’s life. Everything else is secondary.   
  
They tear off clothes and breathe heavy in the darkness. Dean’s skin is always hot. He covers Sam like a blanket, like protection, and touches with his hands and mouth.   
  
“God, Sam,” Dean breathes. His fingers drag across Sam’s cheek, rough and possessive. Their bodies push and slide against each other and Sam turns his head, closes his eyes and kisses his brother’s mouth.  
  
*  
  
They’d been sitting on the floor helping clean Dad’s weapons while he went to get them all breakfast. It was still early; bright sunlight sliced in through the gap between the heavy, brocade motel room curtains. Sam could smell the must from the carpet and after a few minutes his nose started to itch.   
  
When he sneezed, the rag he was using slipped. He tried to keep from dropping the cloth but managed to drop the knife instead. It fell from his hand too quickly to stop and sliced the pad of his thumb before it hit the floor with a dull thud.   
  
“Shit.” Sam sucked his thumb into his mouth and stared at the floor. Stupid. He needed to pay more attention. Stop being such a klutz. His blood was warm and coppery tasting. Tears sprung to his eyes for no reason at all.   
  
“Language,” Dean said, pretending to scold. Sam looked up quick from under his bangs, but Dean wasn’t looking at him, just doing his own cleaning and polishing without giving Sam a second thought. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as the cut started to sting.  
  
After a minute he heard the sound of Dean’s knife hitting the floor and felt him moving closer. “Shit. Sorry, Sammy.” Dean sounded worried. “I didn’t think you really got hurt. You all right?”  
  
“Yeah. I just—“ Sam took a deep breath and looked away. He didn’t want Dean to think he was being a baby. “It’s fine. I just dropped it. Stupid.”  
  
Dean’s hand was warm on Sam’s knee. “Lemme see.”  
  
Sam blinked fast before looking at Dean. He was holding his hand out, and Sam rolled his eyes and sniffed. “It’s _fine,_ ” he insisted. “I don’t need you to—“  
  
“Sammy.” Dean’s fingers were warm where they wrapped around Sam’s wrist. He turned Sam’s hand palm up and pulled him closer on the thin carpet. “Just—“ Dean’s thumb pressed against his. Sam winced. “All right,” Dean said quietly. “Hang on a sec.”   
  
He dropped Sam’s hand and leaned back to grab his knife from the floor. Sam was still sitting there with his hand out, wondering what Dean was doing.   
  
“Squeeze your finger,” Dean finally said, gesturing with his free hand.   
  
“What? Why would I—“   
  
Sam’s eyes went wide as Dean sucked in a breath before pressing the tip of his knife against the pad of his own thumb.   
  
“Dean. What are you—“  
  
“Shut up, Sammy.” Dean hissed quietly. A drop of dark red blood swelled on Dean’s finger and he tossed the knife back onto the ground. It smacked against the carpet, the blade shining silver in the sunlight. “All right. Gimme your hand.”  
  
Sam looked at Dean and blinked. “What?”  
  
“Give me your hand.” Dean said slowly. He made an impatient gesture—come on, come on—so Sam stretched out his arm with his palm facing up. He had no idea what Dean was doing. It seemed crazy or stupid, but—it was Dean. It was fine.  
  
Dean’s mouth quirked in a half-smile and he tugged Sam closer by the wrist. He was kneeling in front of him, and Sam couldn’t do anything but look up and watch as Dean reached across and touched his cut to Sam’s.   
  
Dean had a callus on his thumb; Sam could feel where it pressed against his skin. His hands were warm though, and the longer they sat there with their fingers touching, the better Sam felt. After a minute their pulses synched up; Sam could feel when his heartbeat matched Dean’s.   
  
“See? Now it’s a cool scar,” Dean told him in a rough voice. “We’re like blood brothers. We match.”  
  
Sam laughed softly but didn’t pull his hand away. “We’re _already_ brothers, idiot.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dean said and something in his voice made Sam look up at him. “But now we're more.”  
  
*  
  
Headlights flash outside the motel window, and Sam lies in bed listening to Dean breathe. Dean’s hand is on his hip; strong, warm, protective.   
  
Sam closes his eyes and moves closer under the covers. Dean’s body is warm and his breath is hot against Sam’s neck. Sam knows he’s probably imagining it, but as he falls asleep he tells himself that he can still feel Dean’s fingerprints on his skin.  
  
  
  
-end-


End file.
